


Winter Machine

by floorcoaster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floorcoaster/pseuds/floorcoaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The holidays are all about surprises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the mods for offering me a place in this fabulous fest! I had a great time writing.
> 
> Also many thanks to Eilonwy for the fabulous beta job! It was great working together again. I so appreciate your time with this fic and for your considerate response to my initial question.

Title: The Box Knows Best

“A what?” 

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She plastered a saccharine smile on her face. “Why must I always repeat myself, Ron? Honestly, if you hadn’t just stuffed your mouth full of those crisps, you would have heard what I said.”

“Sorry,” he said, a single piece of crisp escaping its fate and landing on Hermione’s plate. 

Harry forced a laugh. “When does the matching begin?” he asked, feigning extra interest to make up for Ron’s complete lack of decorum. 

She wasn’t sure which was worse. It wasn’t like the bloody thing was her idea; she was simply passing along news she’d learned at work with her friends, who she’d thought might be interested in what she had to say. She really should have known better. “Later this week,” she replied dismissively. “It might be interesting.”

“I don’t know,” said Ron doubtfully, wiping crumbs off his face. “I can’t imagine the Ministry ever coming up with something interesting.”

“Fair point,” she said. “Only, it wasn’t the Ministry _proper_ ; the idea came down from that new subcommittee, the ‘Office of Interpersonal Relations.’ I hear they selected only the most creative minds, in an attempt to find innovative ways of bringing people together.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ron, taking a large bite of his sandwich. 

“I think it _will_ be interesting,” Harry said resolutely, giving her the smile he always used when he thought the matter had been discussed enough and a decent conclusion reached. Then he turned to Ron. “Did you hear about the newest Firebolt?”

ooo

“I can’t believe it! Just who do they think they are?” Pansy Parkinson’s voice could crack crystal on a good day, but she was in rare form today. Draco winced and tried to physically beat back the awful sound.

“I take it you’ve seen the article, then?” he asked warily. When Pansy’s voice hit the upper register, he knew he’d be best served by brewing a pot of very strong coffee, canceling his afternoon appointments, taking a headache potion, and resolving to hold on until the tirade was over. 

Pansy waved a clipped article from the _Prophet_ in front of her, then held it up with great show. She peered down her nose through the fake spectacles she’d taken a shine to and began to read. 

_“We at the Office of Interpersonal Relations are excited to announce a special event this holiday season!”_

She paused and looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “They’re ‘excited,’ Draco. How precious.” Then she continued. 

_“We can’t wait for everyone in all of wizarding England to join with us in making this the best Christmas yet!”_

Draco held up a hand before she could really get going. “I’ve read it, Pansy. No need to waste your time.” 

“Oh, brilliant,” she said, clearly relieved. With a flick of her wand, she Incinerated the clipping, then sat down across from him with a dramatic flourish. “I mean, what do they mean by it?”

Draco shrugged and stood. “Coffee?” Without waiting for a reply, he went to his sideboard and started the pot. 

“Ew, no. Why do you insist upon asking every time? That dark liquid you call coffee should be more properly named sludge, Draco. How can you drink that?”

He smirked to himself, imagining her twitching in her chair at the thought of consuming even a sip. Without her seeing, he tipped a few swallows of his favorite Firewhiskey into the finished cup and returned to his seat. 

“In answer to your question,” he said, taking a sip, “I believe they mean to.... encourage intermingling and good will and winter cheer and all that rot.”

Pansy huffed indignantly. “I refuse. I simply refuse. Draco.” She placed both gloved hands on his desk for emphasis. “I will not participate in some inane attempt to get me to care about someone I’ve never met.”

He raised an eyebrow, taking a scalding sip of what he called his Pansy Tonic. “Merlin forbid.”

“Well?” she demanded, ignoring his remark. 

Draco let out a sigh, doing his best to match her ire. He failed miserably. “I haven’t decided.”

ooo

Hermione stared at the questionnaire before her. She’d expected a whole host of ridiculous questions asking her for a range of useless information like her favorite color, dessert, or shop. Instead, many of the questions were thought-provoking and fascinating. She’d have to take more time with this than she’d allotted. After answering a few generic questions, she’d been surprised at the fourth: 

> _What have you always wanted? Did you ever get it?_  
> 

She glanced around her, waiting for someone to jump out and tell her it was a joke. But no, the Three Broomsticks was knee-deep in the lunch rush, and no one was paying her any mind. Before answering, Hermione scanned the rest of the questions. There were a few that stood out to her.

> _Do you trust anyone with your life?_
> 
> _If you could have personally witnessed anything in history, what would you want to have seen?_
> 
> _What is the habit you are proudest of breaking or want to break?_
> 
> _What is your favorite word? Your least favorite?_
> 
> _Are you still learning who you are?_
> 
> _If you had a chance for a do-over in life, what would you change and why?_

They certainly seemed like strange questions, considering their purpose. Hermione flipped the sheet over, still looking for some sign, but still there was nothing. 

“Huh,” she said out loud, shaking her head. 

“Nargles?” Luna said nonchalantly as she slid into the seat across from Hermione. 

“What?” said Hermione, giving her friend a strange look. “Never mind. Did you get your questionnaire?”

“Oh, yes, that.” She smiled absently. “Lovely, I thought it. Harry said it was stupid.”

Hermione felt the familiar niggle of wishes unfulfilled that she usually felt whenever Harry or Luna spoke of the other. They’d managed to stay madly in love for over five years through the huge mess that was the aftermath of the war with Voldemort. In fact, they seemed even crazier about each other than ever. Luna absently rubbed her protruding belly as she perused the menu.

“I’ve just been looking at the questions,” Hermione continued, putting the paper away. 

“Oh, they’re delightful.” Luna nodded. “I was pleased the Ministry is taking this so seriously.”

Hermione had just opened her mouth to ask for clarification when Harry, Ron, George, Angelina, Neville, and Hannah arrived. All talk turned to the questionnaire, but no one had much good to say about it. Yet Hermione couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to the questions, and she found herself anxious to begin.

ooo

“What in the name of Merlin’s beard is that?”

Draco glanced up from the scroll of parchment he’d been writing on. Theodore Nott was leaning on the doorframe of Draco’s office, hands casually in his pockets, a mischievous smirk on his face. Draco glanced at the sentence he’d been crafting with a slight frown. “I’m working on the questionnaire.”

Theo snorted inelegantly and helped himself to whatever was in Draco’s decanter. “That pile of rubbish? Why would you give it even half a moment of your time?”

“You didn’t do it?” Draco asked, the thought never having occurred to him. 

“Oh, I did it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I sent it in ages ago.”

Draco sighed and sat back in his chair, stretching to loosen muscles he hadn’t noticed were tight. “I don’t know anyone else who’s still working on it, but I can’t see how everyone finished so quickly. I think Greg sent his in the day after he received it.”

Theo handed Draco a glass. “Well, to be fair, Greg probably drew pictures for most of the answers.”

“You’re out of line,” said Draco warningly. He wouldn’t hear anyone speak against Greg. 

Theo held up his hands in mock apology. “The whole thing is ridiculous. I mean, some of the questions on there are utter shite. You have to admit at least that.”

Draco frowned and glanced back at the original questionnaire. He’d started writing directly on the page but his answer to the first substantial question had quickly gotten too long for the space provided. Draco found the questions immensely thought provoking, and the fact that they would be anonymous to whomever he was matched with gave him the freedom to answer without restraint. He'd found himself thinking about them throughout the day, mapping out his replies until he could put quill to parchment after the work day. Each answer was longer than the one preceding it, and the nature of some of the questions had him searching himself, oftentimes deeply. 

There was an impulse inside him that he almost gave into which told him to agree with Theo and laugh off the questionnaire. But he had given hours to it, embarked on a journey of self-discovery through the questions, and answered one query with a decided “Yes, I am still learning who I am, thanks to all these bloody questions!” He had then followed it up with a two and a half – foot essay full of proof. 

“The questions are... surprising,” he said finally, feeling a rush of nerves at going against what Theo had said. It was a small victory, he admitted, but a victory nonetheless. 

Theo gave him a calculating look but merely shrugged. “Yes, fine. But for what? A gift card to Flourish and Blotts? A bag of chocolate-dipped pretzels? I mean, it’s simply not worth my time.” 

Draco looked down at the roll in front of him. There were probably twenty feet of answers, but he didn’t feel that it had been a waste of time. He wasn’t quite sure what the point was, but part of him didn’t honestly care. He’d submit the questionnaire—after making a copy of his answers, of course. After that, he’d be matched with someone somewhere in Great Britain, and he would send his secretary out for a box of chocolates (for a woman) or a bottle of cheap whiskey (for a man). Maybe he wouldn’t even submit his real answers; he’d jot out a few lines for each question and be done with it. Why should he send his raw, honest replies to whoever was running the thing? Granted, the whole thing was anonymous, but it still didn’t seem wise. 

“You might be right on that,” Draco said, putting away his quill and the scroll. He’d decide what to do another time.

ooo

Hermione had never felt quite so pleased with herself. Sure, she’d been called the Brightest Witch of Her Age, and she’d helped Harry defeat the most Evil Wizard of Her Age, she’d become the youngest Head of her Department in history, she’d contributed a few new chapters to the latest edition of “Hogwarts: A History.” But as she held her gift in her hand, she felt a triumph unlike any she’d felt before. It was the culmination of thorough research, excellent people skills, and extreme dedication to finding the absolutely perfect gift.

The door to the Leaky opened and before they’d even entered, she heard the loud voices of her best friends. Quickly, Hermione tucked her purchase into her bag and waited, unable to completely keep from bouncing a bit in her seat.

“What’s got you so happy?” Ron asked, tumbling and clunking into the booth across from her. 

“Oh, I’ve just bought my gift. That’s all.” She gave him a wide smile; she was feeling rather gracious at the moment. 

Harry slid smoothly in beside her. “Have you got your invitation yet?”

Hermione blinked. “I—no, I’ve not been home yet today.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a look, then Ron produced a thick, white envelope that, Hermione assumed, had been absolutely pristine until Ron decided to open it whilst eating his late-afternoon snack. Bright orange smudges marred the exterior, making Hermione cringe slightly. 

She carefully opened the envelope and removed an equally exquisite card with some of the most elegant penmanship she’d ever seen. Feeling her friends’ eyes staring at her, she read aloud.

“The Office of Interpersonal Relations cordially invites you to Malfoy Manor for a Solstice Gathering and Gift Exchange. Bring your secret gift for a night of dancing under the stars. Dinner is provided.” 

When she’d finished, Hermione scrunched up her nose. “Malfoy Manor?”

It seemed as though Harry and Ron had been waiting to discuss this with her. They both started talking at once. 

“Can you believe it’s going to be _there_?” said Ron, at the same time Harry said, “They’ve invited _all_ of wizarding England. All of it!” Then Ron shook his head and said, “How can they possibly fit everyone inside? I know it’s bloody huge, but that’s ridiculous!” while Harry said, “Wonder why that git wanted to host?”

Hermione chuckled lightly. “That _git_ , Harry? The one you’ve both been playing pick-up Quidditch with every other Thursday night?”

Ron grinned. “That’s the one.”

“I take it his team won last week, then,” said Hermione teasingly.

Harry scowled. “Anyway. So are we going?”

“Why ever not?” Hermione asked. 

“Well, because, _you know_ ,” said Ron helpfully. “It’s Malfoy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s the biggest event since the war ended, and the Ministry is trying to bring us all together for one night for a bit of fun. If you two have been able to get past his past, then I’d think everyone else could. Besides.” She shifted a bit in her seat, sitting up straight. “I’m rather curious about who I was matched with.”

Now Ron rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we’ve heard _all_ about him over the last few weeks.”

“I’m sure you’ll hit it off,” said Harry in his this-conversation-is-over-now tone. 

She tried not to blush but was secretly thankful they hadn’t kept on about it. But really, what was she supposed to do? It wasn’t her fault that her match had ended up being incredibly interesting. He was well read, well traveled, well spoken. Harry and Ron had said he was probably old and married, or old and not married with seven cats. Hermione had reminded them that he was in her age range, but nothing she’d said made them interested.She’d decided that, no matter what, she hoped to make a friend through the match, but she couldn’t help imagining him in the most idealistic of ways. Tall, handsome, obviously intelligent, but with a playfulness she wouldn’t expect. 

Nothing would keep her from finding out who her match was, even if it meant braving Malfoy Manor to do it.

ooo

The Ministry had gone to great lengths to keep the matches secret. Right up until the night of the event, Draco hadn’t been able to bribe, cajole, or woo anyone into revealing the woman he’d been paired with, and it had put him in a rather foul mood.

When the gifts were distributed anonymously following dinner, Draco was exasperated. He’d specifically used some of the most hideous, gaudy blinking purple wrapping paper so that he’d see who his gift had been given to, but the Office of Interpersonal Relations had camouflaged all the wrappings so that they all looked the same. Identical, even, right down to the shape and size. The announcement from the party planning committee encouraged people to try to find their partner by mingling, but he wasn’t about to enter into the throng of people massed in the Great Ballroom. He watched from a balcony above as here and there, people found their partners. Once they’d identified each other, they left the room and headed to the reception hall outside, making it only slightly easier for those remaining. 

Finally, just before midnight, there was another announcement stating that when the clock struck twelve, the tag on the gift box would change color, providing each person a clue. Draco found the wrapping and waited until it began to glow a bright gold. He watched as those below began to gather based on the color of their tags, seeking out the gift he or she had given. 

It was still too much. As much as he wanted to find his mystery woman and thank her for the inspired gift, he couldn’t watch the chaos anymore. 

He needed a drink.

ooo

Hermione had vacated the ballroom immediately upon being given her gift. As excited as she was, she didn’t see how she was supposed to find her partner amidst the multitudes. She actually suspected all of wizarding England had shown up. Longing for a quiet corner, she headed deeper into the Manor, hoping for a few moments of quiet to think.

Instead, she’d been unable to locate even a partially empty closet, much less somewhere she could hear herself think. If all the wizarding population of a small country descends upon one location, no matter how large it is, there will simply be no peace to be found. There were locked doors, of course; the Malfoys wouldn’t want their guests to go just anywhere they pleased. If she’d tried to unlock a door or two, though, she couldn’t be blamed. 

Even the outdoor space wasn’t right. It was bright and loud, and though rather empty at first, began to fill up as secret matches were revealed and people moved outside. She heard the announcement about the tags and almost wished she could leave. The idea had been fun to think of at first, but now she didn’t want to meet her partner, a man she’d developed a ridiculous crush on through the answers to his questionnaire—provided to help with gift selection—in such a loud, grating place. The beauty of the event, the liveliness of the music and dancing, the pleasure of the delicious food, had all given way now to an anxiety that couldn’t be squashed. In the cacophony of people meeting and mingling, her resolve was wavering. 

Harry and Ron were probably right; he wouldn’t be right for her. How ridiculous to think that an anonymous gift exchange would deliver her the kind of man she’d been dreaming of. Right, then. She nodded firmly to herself in the middle of the hall and determined to leave. She didn’t notice her tag begin to glow as she tried to find her way out of the massive house. 

Just as she was about to turn down a hallway, someone called to her.

“I wouldn’t go that way if I were you.”

The tinge of ice mixed with mirth in his voice could belong to no other. Hermione tried to plaster a smile on her face as she turned around. “Malfoy. Draco. Why ever not?”

He studied her, a flash of something in his eyes for half an instant, before coming to stand closer, both hands behind his back. Then he pointed up over her shoulder. “See what’s there?”

Hermione looked where he indicated and saw that the entire hallway was swathed in mistletoe. It hung from the ceiling in great clumps, was draped along the wainscoting, and dangled from every doorway. “It’s only mistletoe,” she said. “Most likely magical, of course. When two people walk under it, the mistletoe forces them to kiss in order to move away.”

“It’s not just _any_ magical mistletoe, Granger.” Draco moved decidedly closer, so that their shoulders nearly brushed. “That’s my mother’s work. She’s been cultivating this stuff for weeks. It’s not simply satisfied with a quick peck.”

“Oh no?” she asked, her mind warring between alarm at his proximity and curiosity at the spells required for such a feat. 

“Oh, no. It requires something closer to heavy snogging. Do you see all the doors lining the hallway?” Hermione nodded, counting three on either side. “They’re all guest rooms.”

Realization struck quickly. “What? You mean they have to....” She trailed off, unable to quite put into words the horror she was imagining.

Draco laughed. “Merlin, no. Once they snog, they’re free to go.”

“So.... why?” Hermione asked, thoroughly confused.

Draco leaned nonchalantly against the wall. “The Ministry, when they get a good idea in their heads, don’t take too kindly to someone with a contrary opinion. And when those people happen to have nasty tattoos on their arms, well, the Ministry twists all its advantage. Hence, this little soiree.”

Hermione nodded. “We’d wondered.”

“My parents had no choice but to host, but they wanted to make the evening... interesting.” 

She wasn’t sure what she thought of the smile that tickled the edge of his lips. It was a teeny bit too mischievous. “Interesting. How so?”

“They began arguing about how exactly they would comply, and one thing led to another, and before I knew it they were placing bets on how many people would, let’s say, make use of all the empty rooms tonight.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “They did what?” She glanced back at the hallway, in which were three pairs of witches and wizards snogging like the sun wouldn’t rise. 

He shrugged. “The terms got more and more lucrative, so this was Mum’s attempt at winning. It’s a very interesting theory, really. She posited that if you got two people snogging really well, no matter how little they knew each other, they’d shag more often than not. You should also avoid the hallway that mirrors this one on the other side of the house.”

She didn’t want to think what Lucius Malfoy would come up with. “Thanks for the tip.”

Draco cocked his head slightly, a curious expression in his eyes. “Also, don’t go into the west wing of the second floor. That’s my territory.”

“You’re in on the bet, too?” she asked. 

Again he shrugged. “There’s no harm. Simply providing nudges. At no point does anyone lose the ability to choose.” 

Really, Hermione didn’t know what to think. She watched as one of the couples found a doorknob and turned it, disappearing into a room lit in soft candlelight. When the door closed, the mistletoe hanging from the frame sparkled. 

“I appreciate the advice.” Hermione turned her back on the mistletoe hallway. “I’ll be sure to avoid those areas.” As she surveyed the possible paths before her, she became wary. What if there were other surprises waiting that Malfoy hadn’t mentioned? “Would you be so kind as to help me get safely out of the house? I’m ready to leave.” 

His expression became one of surprise. “Already? But you haven’t met your match.”

“How would you know?” she asked, the defensiveness in her tone surprising her. 

Draco brandished a bottle of wine, somewhat sheepishly. “Because I’m fairly certain it’s me. Also, I have the receipt for that fountain pen in your bag. Though I’ve modified it a bit, so I doubt I could return it.”

Hermione felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She stared at the bottle in Draco’s hands, saw the familiar label on the front, and her heart began to hammer in her chest. When she dared to meet his gaze, she was surprised to see his expression was gentle, with the barest hint of uncertainty. 

He turned the bottle around and looked at the label. “I must say, this is a bloody brilliant gift, Granger. I really ought to have known the second I opened it. It speaks to the kind of meticulous, thoughtful research of which only you are capable. To have put together the pieces in my story that you did and come to this....” He trailed off, and when he looked her way again, he made no attempt to hide his admiration. “How did you get the old man to sell this to you?”

Finally, Hermione was startled from her stupor. “What? You’ve heard of it?” She couldn’t help but feel a bit crestfallen. Naturally, if Draco Malfoy were her gift exchange match, he’d know all about this particular wine, grown in that particular region of France by the grandson of Italian and Russian immigrants. 

“I have,” he admitted. “I’ve tried to buy some before, but the old man wouldn’t do business with me. That ugly tattoo business again, I’m afraid.”

He was quiet long enough to give Hermione’s mind time to restart. Draco Malfoy was her exchange partner. He was the man who’d used a quill to pen a rich and storied tale so captivating she’d started down the path of falling for him. She waited for a feeling of repulsion, of anger, of betrayal, of disgust to well within her. When it didn’t come, Hermione looked at him again as though through a new set of eyes. She didn’t feel an overwhelming urge to run away from her fledgling feelings, now that the object of them had been identified. Maybe that meant that she had forgiven him for his past without even realizing it. She and her friends _had_ been enjoying their time with Draco and _his_ friends on those Quidditch nights. Was it possible there was room for more?

He seemed slightly uncomfortable with the silence that had begun to stretch. “I’m afraid my spell work on that pen pales in comparison to this. However.... I’ve got an idea.” His eyes seemed to dance. “Let’s open this together, shall we?” 

It was one thing to allow the feelings she’d developed for her mystery partner to continue, now that she knew whom they were for. It was an entirely different thing to consider what it would be like were those feelings reciprocated. Not that he felt anything for her, of course, he was simply being nice, because....

Hermione bit one corner of her lip. “I wonder what the old man would say if he found out where that bottle ended up.”

Draco’s eyes lit up. “Bloody brilliant, Granger! I’ll write to him first thing tomorrow. So. What do you say about that drink?”

There were so many reasons to say no, but none of them seemed too terribly important.

ooo

That night, after everyone had gone and the house put to sleep, Narcissa was reading quietly in bed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lucius leave the bathroom.

“Bloody awful night,” he groaned as he slipped into bed beside her.

She glanced at the clock; it read nearly four in the morning. They’d spent nearly ten hours acting and looking like good little Ministry Minions. She was about ready to sink into sweet oblivion. 

“Mmm,” she said lightly.

Lucius gave her a kiss on the cheek and then started to settle into the covers. “Oh, I’ve just thought of something. You’ll never guess what I learned tonight.”

“What’s that?” she asked absently. 

Lucius gently pushed the book down, and she looked at him, clearly peeved. “You’re going to want to hear this.” 

She sighed and secured her place with a bookmark. “You’ve all my attention.”

“Remember a few years ago when there was that Marriage Law talk?”

Narcissa rolled her eyes. “How could I possibly forget? It’s all you could talk about for almost a year.”

“I wanted to secure a good match for Draco,” he supplied, the old arguments still fresh on the tip of his tongue. “But never mind that. We shut that business down.”

“And sold off the back quarter of the property to pay for it,” she said with disdain. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder. If we’d not interfered, I might have a grandchild by now.”

He sat up straighter in bed. “Well, now, just listen. Remember the machine they made? The one that actually made the matches?”

Narcissa nodded. “That whole fiasco was a huge blow to our substantial resources.” She shuddered slightly. “I’ll never forget how much we paid to get Draco’s name submitted first and the shock of the result. Though she looked rather lovely tonight in midnight blue.”

“They kept the machine,” Lucius continued. “They used it for the gift exchange.”

Narcissa’s blood went cold. “They what?”

“I couldn’t believe it either! They modified it for the purposes of a gift exchange instead of marriage matches, but it was the same basic principle and spellwork involved. Same bloody questions, even.”

Narcissa remembered seeing the questionnaire Draco had received with his partner’s answers. She’d known right away it was the Muggle-born girl with unrelenting hair, though Draco hadn’t seemed to have figured it out. “But, Draco! He got the same match as the first time!”

Lucius shrugged and yawned. “I figured as much.” He’d delivered the most interesting news he’d learned over the course of the night, and sleep began to pull heavily at him. He lay back down and pulled the covers up to his neck. “It isn’t the end of the world, Cissa.”

Narcissa sat very still, pondering his words as he drifted to sleep. There were many advantages to such a match, made even greater in the years since the Marriage Law was shelved. And Draco had seemed so enamoured of his “mystery” match; she knew he was half in love with her already. If he could just get over that hair, she thought they might make a go of it.

ooo

The next morning, Hermione couldn’t stop smiling. The glass of wine with Draco had turned into four, which had contributed to her current predicament. The soft, white-blond hair resting on her stomach, the gentle in-and-out of his sleeping breath against the skin of her ribcage, were giving her delicious chills.

There was no way to know so soon if she had exhibited very poor or very excellent decision-making skills. 

Time would tell. And she couldn’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you all have a wonderful holiday season!
> 
> Song title borrowed from a song by Dar Williams called "After All." It has nothing whatsoever to do with the story. The words just fit.


End file.
